


To Play With Fire

by orphan_account



Category: Sky High (2005)
Genre: Long Time Span, M/M, cheating...ish, save u, vague sexual content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:07:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23979493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Seconds spent apart seem like years. Other times years seem like minutes. Either way, something keeps throwing Will and Warren together: call it fate, call it destiny, or maybe just call it a good excuse to get off.
Relationships: Warren Peace/Will Stronghold, Will Stronghold/Layla Williams
Comments: 4
Kudos: 62





	To Play With Fire

Any normal person would collapse at the mere idea of carrying a hundred pound stack of boxes up three flights of stairs with no help from his roommate.

Will Stronghold is no normal person, but he has enough sense to give Warren shit for it once he’s set down the last of their stuff.

“Did you enjoy the show?”

Warren sets his phone down and takes in the view—the stack of unpacked boxes—with a satisfied half-smile. “Sure. Are you excited for your first day at big boy hero school?”

Will doesn’t need to say he’d been a lot more excited when he thought Layla would be here at alongside them at Save U. Even thinking it feels selfish, though, because he really is proud of her for getting accepted into the Heroes Abroad program. There’s no doubt she’d rather spend a semester in the Amazon rainforest than here, but Will’s heart still pangs to think he won’t see her for months.

“Yeah, no, for sure.” He rolls his shoulders back in a futile attempt to release the tension there. “I mean, it’s already going a lot better than my last freshman year.”

“‘Cause I haven’t kicked your ass yet.” Warren’s grinning now. His legs dangle from the seat atop the puke-beige counter of the kitchenette—

No, _their_ kitchenette. Their apartment.

It just made sense. Last year Warren had gotten into some spat with his old roommate that almost ended in the asshole getting roasted alive, so rooming with him again was off the table. After that horror story hit the group chat, Will wasn’t so eager to bunk with a stranger in a dorm for his first year.

Enter: Apartment.

Close enough to campus. Rooming with his best friend. Sharing a bathroom with one person instead of ten. It was a no brainer.

Of course, his dad had a few choice words to say about his moving in with the son of Barron Battle, but it was nothing that couldn’t be fixed by Warren stopping by the house and sucking up for a couple hours.

And besides, it‘s not like Warren‘s the same person he’d been three years ago. For one thing, he’s definitely less willing to pick a fight about his dad. He doesn’t even bring him up in conversation anymore. It was almost weird, the way he dropped it so quickly, but Will knows better than to ask him about it.

Beyond that, Warren’s warmer. Happier. He’d made his own group of friends here. He smiles more often, which still never fails to catch Will off guard. He’s got a great smile. It’s wide and bright and splits his usual melancholy expression in half.

Beyond the roommate squabble, Warren hasn’t gotten into any fights yet (at least that Will knows of). His temper—once as fiery and unpredictable as the man himself—cooled down tremendously.

But he still wears that same ratty old leather jacket, and he’s still ready to pick on Will at a moment’s notice.

That’s fine, Will tells himself, good, in fact. That at least one thing stays the same.

\\\

Warren’s kind enough to show him around campus. Will really should figure it out himself, but he prefers the company. The day is bright and warm, like summer‘s holding its breath for them until September arrives. It’s no surprise the too-green quad is overcrowded with students. Will watches a guy narrowly miss a frisbee catch—then teleport a couple yards back to grab it out of the air.

Layla would love a day like today. She’d reach her hand up to feel the lush leaves of the trees they pass. She’d grab his arm and point at the squirrels darting between backpacks and picnic blankets, under the legs of benches.

Warren does none of this. He doesn’t seem unhappy to be out and about, but maybe like there’s somewhere he’d rather be.

His hair’s pulled up and back. Will knows Warren finds the heat unpleasant—he’s never had a problem keeping warm, but cool‘s another story.

He cocks his head at the grass. “Quad.” Then at the building beside them. “Union.”

“Thanks, couldn’t have figured out those ones on my own.”

“Easy, Stronghold.” He huffs, but he’s not upset. Not like he used to get.

He bumps Will’s shoulder. They continue. Warren points out a few of the buildings Will has class in. They circle around campus, and it’s nice to be shown around by someone who isn’t his parents.

Will doesn’t realize he’s been grinning until he feels the soreness in his cheeks.Maybe it’s the warm sun hitting his face. Maybe it’s the first-day jitters, manifesting themselves as excitement. Maybe it’s because he feels like someone, the opposite of what he felt like in his first days at Sky High.

Like he could fly up to the sun and grab it out of the sky.

\\\

It doesn’t take long for Will to get accustomed. He’s sure Warren’s relieved he won’t be asked any more dumb questions, but to be fair, it’s pretty important to know where the best takeout on campus is.

It also doesn’t take long to realize that his coursework is kicking his ass, and that he’s nothing special around here.

There are three other people with super strength in his Crisis Management lecture—three! And five who can fly! (As far as he knows, he’s still the only person here who can do both.)

If the professors remember his parents, they don’t let on. He’s not a legacy, he’s not a miracle child, he’s not the shining member of the Stronghold Three. Here, he’s just Will.

Most days he goes to lunch with Ethan and Zach. Magenta’s off doing some lab science internship this semester, which is probably for the best since Zach’s still reeling from their breakup.

It goes like this:

Zach complains about one of his classes. Usually about the professor. Ethan offers a logistical solution that Zach’s destined to ignore. Will busies himself stabbing at his food until one of them figures the best way to engage him is asking him about Layla. Or Warren, because he never makes group appearances like this.

Then Will goes back to the apartment, starts an assignment he usually doesn’t finish, and waits for a call he usually doesn’t get.

Rinse and repeat. Like clockwork.

\\\

It’s two weeks before Warren decides Will is leading a pathetic, empty life.

He’s not sure he agrees, but those are Warren’s words.

“You’re coming out with me,” Warren says from Will’s bedroom doorway. All he can see is the silhouette of him, backlit from the hallway light.

“Can’t,” Will says immediately, sitting up. “Layla’s supposed to call me tonight.“ Even that was on the fence, because there was no telling whether or not she’d get any decent cell service. Perils of long-distance dating from the middle of nowhere.

A laugh. “Good, she’ll get to see you moping in your dark room like a loser.”

“Okay, ouch.”

“It’s true.” The silhouette shrugs. “You’re coming with me. If she calls, you can step out. Deal?”

“This doesn’t really sound like a negotiation.”

“You got it. We’re leaving in five.”

\\\

Warren’s friends are like him—mellow, relaxed, and, if Will’s being honest, kind of weird. Just six of them gather in the lounge area of this apartment, just a couple floors up from his own. They’re happy to see Warren, and even Will, so it seems by the impromptu hugs. Will’s suddenly relieved he doesn’t have to deal with flashing lights and bustling crowds of the high school get-togethers in his memory, worse yet the one in his own home.

No, he’s more than content to sit here on the low sofa, between Warren and a girl whose name he forgets the second it leaves her mouth. The two of them were lab partners last year, so they chat amicably about the professor, the classmates, the work load.

Will busies himself with guessing their powers. Someone draped across a beat-up armchair makes it easy for him by popping open a bottle with their laser vision.

Cool.

There are drinks, because of course. Will’s less perturbed by the burn of the vodka than he is by the sickly-sweet cherry taste of whatever it’s mixed with, but he smiles and thanks the short, buff guy who put it into his hand. He checks his phone once, three times, ten times. No call.

Warren is quick to interrupt time #11, snatching the phone from Will’s grip almost as soon as he sees it.

“Nope. Nope, nope,” Warren says, holding it above his head. It’s childish, it’s stupid, but it’s so, SO Warren to take pleasure in this. As if Will couldn’t throw him across the room with no effort. Like taking him in a fight was even an option. “You’re supposed to be having fun, not staring at this every two seconds.”

“I’m not. I mean I am! Having fun.” He makes a grab for the phone, which Warren holds farther out. “I am, come on!”

He’s tipsy enough not to think twice about practically crawling into Warren’s lap to get it, so he does, half-straddling his legs and steadying himself and reaching up with his free hand, and even then he still can’t reach so he looks at Warren like dude-come-on,

and something passes between them.

Warren’s eyes are dark, his pupils blown, the smile fallen from his parted lips. The blush of the alcohol makes him look almost feminine, almost beautiful, and Will isn’t sure if the room’s gone silent enough for him to hear the beating in his own chest but it sure feels that way.

Warren drops the phone into Will’s open hand, and that’s that. He scrambles back into his own spot on the couch to realize they’re the subjects of the room’s attention.

Lab-partner girl is quick to break the tension. “Hah! Come on, Will, should’ve just broke his arm in half.”

“Before I roasted him alive?” Warren seems grateful for the distraction. “Not likely.”

Will laughs. It‘s short and forced or maybe he’s paranoid. He checks his phone again.

And again.

By the time they leave, Will’s promised to hang out with them again soon. Pinky promised, in fact, with the guy whose place it is.

(He’s self-aware enough to know that was probably Warren’s doing. He‘s not stupid enough to think being glued to his phone for a couple hours made a bunch of strangers eager to spend more time with him.)

So he and Warren head back down to their own apartment. Will’s sober enough to make it down the stairs, but not enough to avoid stumbling, so Warren catches him by the hips and eases him down the last few steps.

“My hero,” Will says, and he’s laughing, they’re both laughing, and Warren’s covering his mouth with his fist but Will doesn’t know who he’s fooling because his smile’s all the way up to his eyes.

They make it to their door, and Will leans against the wall of the hallway while Warren unlocks it. Then they’re inside, and Warren’s saying something about getting Will some water.

Will sits himself on the counter. Warren opens their fridge, unscrews a bottle of water, and chugs half of it.

Will watches him grip the bottle. His hand must be warm, because steam drifts off.

He watches Warren’s neck move as he swallows.

Then passes it to Will.

There’s something intimate about the way it’s just touched Warren’s mouth.

Will brings it to his own. He can’t remember a time water has tasted this cold, this good.

And then Warren’s taking the bottle out of his hand and setting it out of his way on the counter. His eyes are dark with intention.

(Will doesn’t know what it is that he intends to do.)

They’re face to face now, and Warren takes a step forward, resting his hands on the counter at either side of him. Hah. Leave it to Warren to be the only person able to make him feel small.

Warren can’t look at him. He doesn’t have to. He just leans forward and closes the space between them.

He doesn’t kiss the way Layla does. With Layla there’s a sweetness, a give-and-take. Warren kisses like he’s hungry. Desperate. Taking. Like it’s urgent.

And Will probably, most definitely isn’t thinking straight, but he‘s kissing him back. And it feels good.

Good enough enough that his legs come up around Warren’s waist. Good enough that he doesn’t even have to think about it.

Warren’s strong enough to pull him off the counter, to support all his weight like this, and just the realization makes Will dizzy. Then Warren’s hands are on his ass and his brain short-circuits completely.

There’s only room for thought, one word like a mantra in his head.

Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes.

Not a thought, an instinct. A decision his body makes for him when Warren’s hips shift upward to meet his, and the friction is delicious. Electrifying.

And it’s over almost as soon as it began. Warren lets go, and Will stumbles for a second before his feet get a hold on the floor.

In the dark, Will can barely see him. Just the shine of his hair and the gloss of his dark eyes, refusing still to meet his own.

There’s a beat. Then,

“What the hell was that?” Will says, and even he can’t tell whether he’s talking about the kiss or the break off.

Warren takes a second before he replies. “Two drunk guys doing something they shouldn’t have?”

Will nods. “Yeah, okay.”

Probably best not to mention that he‘s sober enough to have thought about that. That he suspects Warren is too.

That he wants to do it again. And again, and again, until his lips are numb.

This is not ideal.

Warren brings his hand down on the counter on his way out, and Will jumps from the sound it makes. “Night, Stronghold.”

“Night,” he says back, and he can barely hear himself. Doesn’t matter. Warren’s already shutting the door to his bedroom.

\\\

Will wakes up and Warren is gone, from the bed, from the apartment, and Will finds a post-it on their fridge saying he’s gone out for the day. That’s it.

It means Will has the day to pace the apartment and to come to terms with two essential truths.

The first is a complicated thing: that he‘s attracted to men.

He’d be lying to say he hadn’t considered it before. Of course. Everyone questions it, don’t they? He knows for sure that he‘s into women. (Sometimes so stupidly into them that he almost destroyed his high school.) He figures he could shelve the other half of this discovery for now.

The second truth is easier to digest but harder to admit: that he’s attracted to Warren.

This itself doesn’t seem all that bizarre. Warren is by all means objectively attractive. He’s tall, he’s muscular, and it’s easy for Will to envy those biceps even though he can lift ten times the weight they can. The difference is that Warren worked for his build, no doubt in a gym somewhere, hair tied up and back and out of his face, panting, slick with sweat...

Yeah, he might be attracted to Warren. Could he blame himself for that? Even Layla admitted she’d been into him, though it was a mere fraction of what she felt for Will at the time.

Layla.

He loves her. Of course he does. Sex with her, the few times they’d had it, was good. Incredible, even.

And yet Warren was something else entirely. It was impossible to even try to compare them. There was no romance with Warren, his best friend, his roommate. It was a heat-of-the-moment thing, hardly worth thinking about again, hardly worth mentioning to anyone.

When Layla video calls him that night he’s excited to talk to her, and she’s bursting with excitement and a story about what it took to annihilate some invasive species or something. Her audio lags and he nearly catches every few words, but just seeing her face is worth it.

Yes, he loves her. He’s sure of it.

\\\

Late, late enough that Will’s gone to bed, Warren does come back, squashing Will’s theory that he fled the University and even the country to avoid coming to terms with the actions of last night.

It’s a damn good thing, too, because Will needs to talk to him. He figures it’ll be better to just have it all out in the open.

And mutually agree that they’re never doing that again.

So when he hears the door unlocking and opening, he’s ready to jump out of bed and get this over with. There’s the familiar cadence of Warren’s feet crossing the floor, and Will sits up.

But he’s not alone. There’s the rhythm two more feet: ones that Will doesn’t recognize.

He goes still. Holds his breath so he can hear better and maybe figure out which of Warren’s friends it is.

Through the closed door he can make out a “yeah” and a close-mouthed laugh. Some guy. Will can’t put a face to the voice.

There’s no more talking. They go straight to Warren’s room.

In a few seconds, it becomes abundantly clear that it’s not simply a friendly visit.

They’re both on the bed, Will’s pretty sure. And there’s shifting. A creak. Another.

It’s intrusive, listening like this, but Will lives here too. And it’s not like he’s deliberately seeking something out, crouched down, ear pressed to the wall—

Though he would hear things a lot more clearly if he was.

(So he does, and it’s still not weird, because he lives here and he’d hear it anyway.)

From his new spot, he hears a few things. Soft gasps from one of them—he doesn’t think it’s Warren, but it could be. He’s never heard him make that sound before.

He’d like to.

There’s a lot of movement. Changing positions, probably. Or just rutting against each other.

Will’s head spins trying to picture them. And the other guy. And what the hell Warren’s gotten himself into.

And why he cares so much.

Though it is interesting. Warren’s never brought a hookup back, at least not while he’s lived with Will. He can’t help but wonder if it has something to do with last night.

And then, unmistakably, he hears Warren moan. He knows his voice; he’s sure of it. It’s subdued, more of a grunt than anything, but Will suddenly he feels like he’s intruding.

And like his mouth is suddenly dry, so he steps away from the wall.

He gets into bed. He can still hear them, but it’s faint, and he needs to distract himself more than anything.

Lucky him—there’s a text from Layla.

He’s never been more grateful for her. It’s a picture of the forest. He replies something about how beautiful it is—how beautiful she is—and he stares at the wide green leaves until his eyes ache and his ears are met with silence.

It must be a few minutes since he’s realize, or he probably drifted to sleep or something. His brain feels hazy. Heavy.

There’s rustling by the kitchenette. He waits a few seconds, then rises to meet it.

Warren, alone and wielding a jar of peanut butter, is looking at him already. Must’ve heard his door open.

“Thought you were asleep, Stronghold.”

No, he didn’t. Will can tell from how he says it. He rubs the fatigue from his eyes, trying to come up with something to say that doesn’t make him sound like an idiot.

“Did you have fun?” he decides on. It comes out all wrong. Bitter and twisted.

Warren smiles. Sets the peanut butter down and turns his full attention to Will. Takes a step forward, because that sets him up to his usual standards of drama and physical intimidation. “You look like you have something you want to tell me.”

Will’s suddenly separate to prove he’s not afraid of Warren, or of this. He takes a step, too. “And if I don’t?”

“I think you do,” Warren says, still approaching. “Did you enjoy the show?”

Asshole. Presumptuous shit. Like he knew Will would listen.

Will had asked him the same thing, moving in those few weeks ago. He has no doubt Warren remembers. It’s just like him to flip the script.

The two of them, finding each other fast.

It’s a weird sensation. Like they’re circling each other. Stalking, predator and prey.

The two of them, face to face.

It’s natural. One second they’re apart, the next they’re not. Teeth crash together. Warren’s hand is on Will’s back, then in his hair. Will’s turning them around, pinning Warren against the counter—

And he’s too excited, and it’s too fast, too forceful, because suddenly they’re both looking at where the granite’s caved in behind Warren.

A beat.

“You’re paying the deposit, Stronghold.” Their eyes meet, and it’s the last fucking thing that matters right now, so they’re kissing again. Warren’s hands are big and warm and they hold onto Will like a lifeline.

He’s not sure where to touch, what to do, so he just says “Show me.”

And Warren’s happy to take him to his room. To lay him down and reach between them to take him in his hand, to cut off Will’s gasps with his lips, to show him.

And it feels good.

\\\

Warren teaches him to take his fingers, one at a time, and Will can’t help but wonder how he came to know this pleasure so well. He wonders how many men have squirmed beneath his touch like this, how many have gasped Warren’s name.

He’s patient with Will. It’s unlike any side of Warren he’s seen. He’s learning more about him than he’s ever known.

Like that when he gets worked up, he has to focus really hard not to flame up. Dangerous in both combat and sex, as most things are.

(Having someone inside you is vulnerable enough without the possibility of that person bursting into flame at any moment.)

He learns that Warren’s picked up an incredible set of skills during his first year at school. Like this thing he does with his tongue that makes Will tremble every time.

He tries to teach Will, and he’s sure he doesn’t have it down right, but watching Warren’s eyes flutter shut feels like a success, anyway.

And now it’s hard not to be all over each other when they’re living together. Warren usually gets back from his classes later than Will, and it’s like a race to the couch (or the counter, or even the floor that one time).

Only a few times are they interrupted by a call from Layla. Warren isn’t usually a dick about it, except for one time when he insists on continuing while Will’s on the phone.

(Hearing his girlfriend talk about invasive species while watching his best friend suck his dick is a surreal experience Will doesn’t especially hope to repeat.)

It doesn’t feel like he’s cheating on her. He’s not, really. Warren’s in another universe. He’s convenient, not intimate.

He’s the next best thing until—

\\\

Layla’s back.

Layla’s back and it’s a godsend to feel her touch again. She kisses Will and runs her thumbs along the line of his jaw and beams in a way that puts the sun itself to shame. Months in the sun had blushed her face in soft pink and sharpened her freckles. She’s beautiful. More than ever before.

Will helps her unpack into her dorm. They go to dinner. It’s a Chinese place down the block, and significantly less shitty than the paper lantern. Layla laughs when he tells her that.

“At least you didn’t blow me off this time.” She kicks at his foot under the table.

Dear God, he’s missed her.

They go back to his apartment. She’s delighted to see Warren, and he in return. He picks her up and spins her around almost effortlessly, and when her feet touch the ground she’s lost to a fit of giggles.

It sets off a weird feeling in Will’s stomach, watching the two of them get along so well. The last three years of the same thing never made him feel this way, but it was more than fair to say that things have changed. Back then Will’s lips hadn’t known the touch of Warren’s. The living room couch hadn’t been sullied by the vivid memory of a warm, lazy morning there in October.

If Warren’s uncomfortable, he doesn’t show it. Layla fills him in on her adventures. He smiles and nods and says all the right things.

Figures those two get along like a bushfire.

Warren is courteous enough to step out for a bit—says he’s got some work to do in the library.

Will introduces Layla to his bed. Hours later, when she’s asleep and he’s tracing circles against her freckled back, he hears the front door open and Warren cross the floor to his own room. Alone.

Will steadies his breath to listen, to guess as to what he’s doing, but he can’t catch much. Just a few lengths of pacing across his room, then a sound like he’s fallen into bed.

It’s almost painful, how vividly he can picture Warren. Laying out, his forearm draped across his eyes, chest heaving with a breathy sigh. If Will was there, out of breath and sweating, face pressed to the crook of his old friend’s neck, Warren would run his free hand through his hair and gently massage his scalp.

Will’s not there. Twenty feet and a wall and a woman separate them, and he’s got to get better at being okay with that.

\\\

Layla doesn’t stay the night much. She spends the days with Will when her classes allow it, and Warren tags along most times too. They show her the best dining halls and study spots.

She joins four student orgs in her first week.

So Will finds himself with more time on his hands than he’d anticipated.

He’s not sure where he stands with Warren. Of course, they get along just fine, but he’s impossible to read.

Will assumes now that Layla’s back, his and Warren’s... extracurriculars are at a standstill. And that’s fine, until it isn’t.

So he’s sitting in the living room, writing a stupid fucking essay that he wishes he could bum off Ethan.

And then Warren’s hands are on him, atop his shoulders, gently pressing at the muscle there. Will doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until he feels the focused heat, thumbs pushing at the space under his neck, and he gasps outright.

It’s almost embarrassing, but he doesn’t have to turn around to know that Warren’s smiling. It’s in his voice when he says “You’re tense.”

“Okay, and?” Will looks back to his essay, but the words shake and he can’t even pretend to focus.

Warren is calm and steady nonetheless. “You should relax.” His hands are warm when they travel further down Will’s back.

Will turns to face him. “Are you...” He trails off.

“Use your words, Stronghold.”

“No, you do. What do you want?”

Warren shrugs. “I was just about to hop in the shower. Can’t I express some genuine concern for my dear friend and roommate?”

“You’re bad at invitations.”

(So they’re in the shower.)

They’re in the shower and Warren’s making a big show of shaking his wet hair under the shower head and then pushing it all back along his scalp. It’s so effortlessly sexy and Will can’t decide whether he’s burning with jealousy or desire.

Warren pulls Will in under the water. It’s hot. Probably a combination of the water and Warren’s body.

Will’s hands are slippery against Warren’s skin. They slide against his chest and up to his neck and Warren sighs into his mouth and grabs at him like it’s been years.

How long has it really been—a week? More?

Sometimes it feels like it’s been ages. The weather’s warmer, now. Summer’s almost here.

Warren bends him over and takes him right there on the shower tile, like there’s no time to be wasted.

By the time they get out, the bathroom is completely fogged with steam. Will wipes at the mirror with his hand to catch his own eye in the mirror.

He’s not the same person he was four years ago.

\\\

Senior year for Warren means he starts field work.

It’s amateur stuff, basically following around the real heroes while they get shit done, but exciting nonetheless.

Will’s there when the suit gets dropped off. Warren stands with it in the doorway, a hint of a smile gracing his face.

“Well, come on, then!” Will says. “Let’s see it!”

Warren disappears to the bathroom. It’s a few minutes before he comes out—surprising, for someone who was taught the art of quick changing in school, yet not at all for someone who’s taken years to practice being calm and deliberate.

He looks good.

The suit itself is expected, all spandex and dark leather, with hard armor pieces sitting on his upper chest. It makes him look inhuman, like he should be the one with super strength. It makes him look like a god.

Will swallows. “It looks good.”

He looks good.

“Figured. You wouldn’t stare like that if it didn’t.” He does a turn, more theatrical than anything, and Will tries to look less dumbstruck. Less obsessed.

It fits him perfectly. All jet-black. Like it was made for him, because it was.

It’s not a hero’s color. Will wonders who Warren had to fight to get it made that way. The others, they’ve got reds and blues and greens and whites. People see black and they think villain. People see Warren and they think of his father.

Not Will.

Will looks at Warren and sees forbidden fruit; his scarlet letter.

“Get over here, Stronghold,” Warren says, and Will does. His fingertips brush the spot where Warren’s chest plates meet. He presses his flat palm against leather. It’s hot already. The skin beneath must be scalding.

Warren dips his head low, so his lips brush Will’s ear. He barely has to whisper; he just breathes.

“Now take it off me.”

\\\

Warren’s out more. Will can tell that he loves it, actually being on the scene, hurling balls of fire at the bad guys and getting treated like a good one.

He is a good one. He’s really doing something, instead of writing six-page Hero Ethics papers inside on weekends.

He’s decent enough not to boast to Will. Layla, on the other hand, is a different story. She riles him up and asks all the questions and Warren’s thrilled to indulge her.

Warren must know it pisses Will off to no end. There’s few things he wants as much as finally being able to actually be a hero.

But he tells Layla, loudly and obnoxiously, about scaling a ten story building to capture a villain. Just because he knows Will’s listening.

\\\

When they’re all heroes, it’s different. Will lives with Layla now, and they see each other every day. Once in a blue moon, they get assignments together.

More often, it’s Warren by his side. No sidekick needed; two heroes kicking ass and taking names.

Will can always fly home, but sometimes he’s tired, see, and would be better off booking a hotel room for the night.

\\\

He doesn’t expect to see Warren here. Galas aren’t usually his thing.

There are dozens of ‘em, for heroes like them, and they go to every single one.

He and Layla, that is. She’s radiant in her deep forest green, and he’s—well, he’s himself in a suit perfectly tailored but still feels too big. Or maybe it’s he who feels small.

Doesn’t matter. Layla thinks he looks handsome, and he knows this because she kisses him on the cheek and says so.

But they’re both sick of this shit. Making appearances is hardly important to saving lives, but wooing legislators lets them keep doing it. Putting dozens of heroes under the same roof is an awful idea that miraculously hasn’t failed yet. Then again, Will supposes it’s better security than money could buy.

They cut to the edge of the floor and play their game. Layla tips her champagne flute towards a woman in red.

Will thinks for a moment. “I think I saw her on a case. Journalist. She’s trying to snake out people’s identities to fill the void of her failed marriage.”

Layla laughs so quick she almost chokes. “Harsh. Okay, you go.”

Will subtly points to a man standing behind the main podium, wiping his palms against his thighs.

Layla picks up quickly. “He’s nervous. Hasn’t given a speech since his brother’s wedding. And it was so good that everyone cried.”

A nicer story from a nicer person. There’s still inarguably something weird and morbid about picking strangers apart like this, but it’s what they do.

Layla turns back away, and she’s struck with a sudden smile. “And that one?”

That one is a tall, dark, handsome, and headed their way. “Warren,” Will barely whispers, and he’s upon them, greeting each of them with a hug.

He smells like a cologne Will’s never smelled on him before. Something earthy and dark. And beneath that, smoke. Will should be used to that scent, after years of diving face-first into Warren, but even now it still gets his blood pumping.

Layla pokes at him. “Didn’t think you’d make an appearance tonight.”

Or any night. Understatement of the year.

Warren’s as casual as ever. Shrugs. “Figured I’d see what these are all about.”

As if. Will bets his publicist all but dragged him here.

Their eyes meet. Warren—the smug bastard—is bold enough to look him up and down in an exaggerated movement that makes him wish he were suddenly anywhere else. No, that they were. The two of them. And that things were different.

“Well, you look great,” Layla tells him, and it feels like she’s interrupting, which is stupid, because she isn’t. “And you should show your face here more often.”

Warren’s quick to cut her off. “Nah, can’t. Busy saving the world and all that.”

“Oh yeah?” Will asks, suddenly tense. “Funny, we’ve been doing the same thing.”

“And yet you can’t find a better use of your time than sucking the dicks of these strangers.” He makes a wide gesture to the rest of the room. No one’s close enough to hear him, but it still puts Will on edge.

He says it like he’s kidding, but he isn’t. And he’s right; Will and Layla sure are critical of the galas, but not enough to avoid them altogether. It’s just hard not to take his words as a personal attack.

Warren shifts gears. Points to the flowers pinned in Layla’s hair. “Zinnias?”

She touches them, visibly shocked. “Yeah, how—“

“My mother plants them in their garden.” He smiles at her. “They’re beautiful.”

Will’s tenseness turns to something else, twisting deeper in his stomach.

Layla’s still looking at him like he’s grown another head. “...Thanks.”

Warren claps his hands together, and Will watches the orange curves of his tattoos so he doesn’t have to look him in the eye.

“Anyway, that’s enough schmoozing for me. I’ll see you when I see you.” And he’s off, making a beeline for the door.

There’s a thick pause. Then Will looks to Layla, who looks like she’s chewing on her tongue. “What was that?”

“What? I mean, it was Warren.” He’s not sure what else to say. “You know he hates these things.”

She eyes him. “No, I mean you guys looked like you were about to rip each other’s heads off. Did something happen?”

“No!” He pauses for a second. Doesn’t remember anything. “No, it’s just. Y’know. We don’t talk much anymore. Things are weird.”

She huffs. “They shouldn’t be. He probably doesn’t have anyone else to reach out to.”

“Did you forget who we’re talking about? Lone wolf supreme? Almost flayed you alive for sitting at his table?”

“You should go talk to him.”

“Layla.”

She crosses her arms, and Will knows her well enough to know she’s holding her ground on this one. “Before he leaves. Go.”

So he does. Because he feels like he should. Because he’s told to.

It’s not hard to find Warren in the parking lot. He’s already mounted his motorcycle (how on brand of him) but he’s paused to smoke a cigarette.

Will’s always thought smoking‘s gross. But on Warren it looks good.

It’s only a few strides to Warren, but it feels like more with his eyes on him. If he’s surprised to see Will, he doesn’t show it.

“Hey,” Will says, and then realizes it sounded forced and weird.

Warren raises an eyebrow. “Hey.”

God, how did things get so tense between them? Seems like just yesterday he was on his knees in front of him—

No. He reminds himself he’s irked. He doesn’t want to fuck him; not anymore. It’s been a while

“So, uh, what was that? In there?”

Warren smiles like Will’s a fly on his web. “Relax, Stronghold. Just wanted to get your attention.”

Will swallows. “By flirting with my girlfriend.”

“Oh, are you two together? You had me fooled.”

He should punch the smug grin off his face. “Listen, I don’t know what you’re trying to do here, but—“

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Excuse me?”

Warren’s calm as ever. Tilts his head towards the back of his bike. “Wanna take a ride with me?”

“Are you out of your mind?”

“Are you?”

Will pauses for a moment. Glances back towards the door.

Warren catches it, because of course he does. “Tell Layla I’ll drive you home. She has your keys?”

Yeah. He can picture where they’re sitting in her purse, in the side pocket with the vegan, cruelty-free lipstick.

“Okay,” Will finally says.

Warren smiles. Tosses the butt of his cigarette to the ground and stomps it.

Will’s never ridden a motorcycle before. He hooks his leg over the back and scoots in close to Warren.

God, of course this has to be so intimate.

Of course Warren laughs when Will winds his arms around his waist.

They get going. It feels faster than Will expected, so he holds on tighter.

(Perks of riding a motorcycle: it’s too loud for Warren to make a snarky comment. Or at least too loud for Will to hear it.)

Will doesn’t know where they’re going. He can’t see much. He presses his face into the back of Warren’s jacket. The wind is fierce and loud and it almost feels like flying.

When he carries people—from a burning building or the clutches of an evil robot—he wonders if it feels like this to them. Completely at his mercy like he is to Warren’s. Vulnerable, but trusting.

He’s not sure how long it is before they stop. It’s winding roads and a cliffside they can see the lights of the city from. Will’s legs feel like jelly when he steps off.

Warren takes a seat on the grass, so Will joins him. It’s not half a second before Warren reaches for Will’s neck to turn his head and kiss him.

(It takes just over a second for Will to throw himself at Warren so he’s on top of him.)

It’s weirder, this time. Slower, like Warren’s savoring it.

The weirdest part, though, is that Warren isn’t reaching lower. That he’s not pinning Will by his wrists and grinding down on him.

So they kiss. And they kiss, and they kiss. And then Warren throws his head back in exhaustion and Will does too, so they lie there.

It’s too bright in the city for the stars to come out. Will stares at an open, empty, dark sky.

Neither of them say anything for a few minutes.

Then Will decides things have been going too well for too long. “I think I’m going to ask her to marry me.”

Warren waits just long enough for Will to think he’s said something horribly wrong. But then, “Good. You should, she’s wanted that all her life.”

“You don’t think it’s a bad idea?”

“No.” He hears Warren shift, then laugh. “We should probably stop doing this, though.”

“Yeah.” He knows Warren’s right.

(He hates to admit that that’s usually the case.)

He turns to look at Warren, who reaches for him again. Another kiss, chaste.

Bastard.

They shouldn’t. Not again. But Warren inches lower, and Will’s hands are already threading themselves into his hair.

Like it’s routine. Like it’s instinct.

“Fuck,” is all he can say when Warren does that thing with his tongue that he likes.

They shouldn’t be doing this; they shouldn’t have started.

But that’s the thing about playing with fire—you have to be willing to get burned.

**Author's Note:**

> feel more than free to engage in sky high discourse with me on my twitter @ogygianprincess


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